


The only thing worse than being talked about

by involuntaryorange



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, Gen, M/M, Post-Canon, References to Oscar Wilde
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-11 18:58:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19932937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/involuntaryorange/pseuds/involuntaryorange
Summary: “You knew Oscar?” Crowley swiveled in his seat so that his legs, previously draped over the chair arm, were now stretched out in front of him for what seemed like miles. “Iknew Oscar.”





	The only thing worse than being talked about

**Author's Note:**

> My first Good Omens fic! This is definitely the fastest I've gone from consuming a piece of media to writing fic about it.
> 
> Thanks to kedgeree11 for telling me how to fix this!

Aziraphale was dusting the hagiography section when a young man entered the shop, carrying a stack of papers. He didn’t look like the normal clientele, which is to say he was under fifty, had one of those trendy haircuts that looked like a swirl of whipped cream atop a pastry, and appeared to have showered in the recent past.

He seemed unlikely to want to buy a book, which made him an excellent customer in Aziraphale’s opinion.

He cast his eyes around the shop, ultimately landing on Aziraphale. “Are you the owner? Mr. Fell?”

“I am. How can I help you?”

The young man glanced nervously at Crowley, who was sprawled silently and quite indecently across the leather easy chair he’d insisted Aziraphale add to the decor. Aziraphale had fretted that it would give customers the impression that they should spend more time in the shop, but Crowley had reassured him that it would always already be occupied by one lanky, foreboding demon, and so far he had not reneged on the promise.

“Um, I’m part of a community theatre and I was wondering if I could hang a poster for our latest show in your front window?”

“Oh, how lovely! Isn’t that lovely, Crowley?”

“Absolutely splendid,” Crowley drawled, in a tone that implied that he thought it was no such thing.

“Of course you can hang up a poster, dear.” Aziraphale craned his neck to look at the papers in the young man’s arms. “What show are you putting on? Oh, ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’! That’s one of my favourite novels. We’ll be sure to go, won’t we, Crowley?”

Crowley snorted derisively, which was perhaps unsurprising, given that community theatre was something he liked to claim credit for. More surprising was the tightness in his jaw when Aziraphale turned to give him a warning glance.

The young man, having taped the poster up facing the street, murmured a quick thanks and ducked outside. Aziraphale tutted. “You might’ve been nicer.”

Crowley rolled his head to glare at Aziraphale over his sunglasses. “How many times do I have to tell you, angel, I’m not _nice_.”

“Yes, well. It _is_ a favourite of mine, and I do like to support the arts in whatever way I can.”

“Bunch of spotty twinks chewing their way through that overwrought, moralistic prose? Count me out. He should’ve stuck to writing comedies, if you ask me.”

Aziraphale sighed. “His comedies were wonderful, of course, but if you’d met him, you’d know that beneath the epigrams and witty repartee, he was a sad, troubled man.”

“You knew Oscar?” Crowley swiveled in his seat so that his legs, previously draped over the chair arm, were now stretched out in front of him for what seemed like miles. “ _I_ knew Oscar.”

“Did you?”

“’Course I did. Who d’you think taught him how to throw a dinner party?”

Aziraphale took a moment to assimilate this new information. “Is that why he always had those petit-fours sent in from that delightful little patisserie we went to in the 6th Arrondissement?”

“You know I’ve never gone in for the whole food _thing_ ” — Crowley waved a hand dismissively — “but you seemed to like the place so I assumed it was worth a recommendation.”

Aziraphale beamed at him, and beamed more intensely when Crowley pretended to be disgruntled by it. “Funny that we never ran into one another.”

Crowley smirked. “Seems almost like he was trying to keep us apart.”

“More powerful beings have tried and failed,” Aziraphale said. Crowley tipped his head in concession. Now a bit somber, Aziraphale added, “Such a tragedy, what happened to him. I sometimes wonder if I should have intervened.”

“He made his choices, angel. You did what you were supposed to do.”

“Yes, well.”

They lapsed into a silence that was wistful on Aziraphale’s part and thoughtful on Crowley’s. Aziraphale busied himself with his Joan of Arc collection while waiting for Crowley to formulate whatever it was he wanted to say.

Eventually Crowley cleared his throat. “I suppose I’ve always worried— wondered, I mean… Dorian Gray, y’know.”

Aziraphale glanced at Crowley out of the corner of his eye, not wanting to spook him. He had taken off his sunglasses and was twirling them in his left hand. “What about him?”

“Ageless figure who commits unspeakable evils? Remind you of anyone?’

The motions of Aziraphale’s feather duster ceased as he took in Crowley’s studied nonchalance. He set the duster down and hurried over to the chair, where he perched upon the arm and placed a hand on Crowley’s shoulder.

“Oh, my dear, no. Dorian Gray, that was all Gerald.”

Crowley looked up at him with wide golden eyes. “Gerald?”

“Yes, Gerald. Did you never meet him? He was a right twat, that one.”

“Angel!” Crowley gasped, scandalized.

“Well, it’s _true_. He was quite the entertaining party guest, but nobody wanted to be in the same room as him for more than an hour. Oscar used to say that he kept Gerald around for two reasons: literary inspiration and to make himself look temperate in comparison.”

Crowley chuckled at that, but Aziraphale could tell that it was a distracted chuckle, meant to cover up the relief of a century-old fear being assuaged.

Aziraphale moved his hand from Crowley’s shoulder to his cheek. “I can see why you thought it might be based on you, though.” He waited for Crowley’s brow to furrow slightly, because he may be an angel but he’s not a saint, then clarified, “You _are_ exceptionally beautiful.”

Crowley rolled his eyes and replaced his sunglasses, but Aziraphale didn’t miss the pleased blush on his cheeks, and these days he knew he wasn’t supposed to.

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone would like to Britpick for me, please let me know.


End file.
